


Zeig Dich

by Morgana_Ren



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, I actually had an alternate ending planned, I'm so sorry for subjecting you guys to this, No this isn’t furry au, ONCE AGAIN me being gross with my kinks, Possessive Behavior, Rough Sex, Sadism, Sexual Assault, Strade is a horrible human being, hopeless protagonist, just Strade bein Strade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:55:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22138927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgana_Ren/pseuds/Morgana_Ren
Summary: You don't think wolves are supposed to mate with rabbits.You doubt he cares.
Relationships: Protagonist/Strade (Boyfriend to Death), Strade (BTD/TNR)/Reader, Strade (BTD/TNR)/You
Comments: 19
Kudos: 166





	Zeig Dich

**Author's Note:**

> morgana-ren.tumblr.com
> 
> Howdy fellas, I've had this in my WIP box forever and it was technically done with the exception of some editing, but I wanted to get it out here before I forget it exists. I might read over and change a few things but here ya'll go.
> 
> I'm so terribly sorry. Don't you judge me, now.

The floor is cold and smells like bleach.

Is it bleach? What would one use to get blood and tissue out of porous concrete? Something sanitizing. Probably industrial strength.

Whatever it is, it’s burning your nostrils.

You don’t make a point to get so well acquainted with people’s floors very often, but Strade isn’t the type of guy who really cares about your floor greeting policies. In fact, he doesn’t seem to care much at all about you, your well-being included.

You’ve learned there’s only one thing going through his mind when he’s sweating over you with that flushed, excitable expression, pupils blown out and eyes half-mast. He’s straddling you, caging you to the floor beneath him like a fucking animal, making sure there’s nowhere to run even if you could. To make matters worse, he’s drooling and rutting against you, deliberately drawing this out because he knows you hate it hate it _hate it_ when he’s touching you.

Normally he’d be halfway to home by now.

He’s looking down at you through greasy clumps of hair, exposing his canines and occasionally running his tongue over them. It would look like a sly, lustful gesture to anyone else, but Strade’s a predator. There’s nothing sly about him.

You know he’s taunting you. Taunting you like a wolf would a little rabbit that was naive enough to let him get too close. Foolish enough to not run the second the lurching feeling in their gut grew strong enough to make them sick, alarm bells screaming in their head. Stupid enough to share a few drinks with it despite that, even.

No, the smile is that of a wolf right before he rips out a giant chuck of sinew from the rabbit’s furry flesh, leaving it twitching and bubbling blood as he chews it up before its convulsing body.

You’re the rabbit, by the way. That’s what he calls you when you please him, right? _Hase_? It’s been a while, but you think it means bunny or rabbit or some other small animal that he could sink his teeth into without breaking a sweat. A term of endearment that he’s perverted and twisted the meaning until the original was obscured behind his violent brand of love.

You don’t think wolves are supposed to mate with rabbits. You doubt he cares.

You wonder if he’ll let you use whatever he cleans this ugly cement floor with while you take a shower (if you ever even get to shower again, that is) because no amount of hot water and whatever cheap soap he apparently rarely uses is ever going to be enough to get his stench off you. Of everything you’re covered in, of all the dust, grime, blood and other fluids, it’s his smell that makes you want to retch. It lingers on you, making your skin itch and permeating your pores long after he’s left. You swear you’re beginning to smell like him.

It’s too much, and no matter how shallowly you try to breathe, it’s always there. You can’t even breathe through fabric to try and mask it because Strade had made sure to be thorough in “removing” all your clothing a few days prior.

It’s bad enough when you’re alone. It’s even worse when he’s hovering over you, perspiring onto your exposed flesh and grinning like a hyena.

You know it will be even worse this time. He has practically drenched the front of that ugly shirt of his. You can feel his stomach rubbing against your bare navel and you just know he’s going to leave you sticky and disgusting on purpose. You knew he was going to really make this gross and unbearable because he knows you hate him, and he likes that.

He likes that you try to hold your breath around him. Gives him a real kick. You would too, if given the opportunity.

The only saving grace is that he hasn’t forced you to look at him yet, but you know he will. He’s leaning over you so damn closely that you can feel his stubble irritate your chin. His moist breath is collecting on your cheek as you crane your head so fucking far to the left that you begin to cramp. Your eyes are clenched shut because you just know the look he’s giving you right now and if you had to see those horrid amber eyes for one more second, you were going to scream.

However, no matter how tightly you clamped them, you couldn’t block out that fucking smell or the afterglow of his eyes on the back of your eyelids, like you’d stared into a lightbulb for too long. A shitty, horrible lightbulb.

To think you found them beautiful once.

He was groping your chest and breathing so heavily that you could practically taste his breath in your mouth. You resented the fact that he managed to assault all 5 of your senses without even trying. Although, to be frank, you knew it really said something about the state you were in when you could almost smell yourself over the dirty, greasy psychopath worrying your inner thigh with his khaki tented erection.

It had been days and you hadn’t been let up for to bathe yet, and you hadn’t exactly been the cleanest when you left for the bar that evening. You _smelled_ like you had been held captive in a basement. It was a pungent, distinctive smell, like tangy copper and sweat (yours and his, naturally) and something that smelled like raw pancake batter that you really didn’t want to think about. There was something else, another smell that had developed over the last day or so.

You were almost certain now that it was decay.

You wondered if your body had accepted death and was prematurely rotting in acknowledgement of the situation. You saw something like that on a tv show once.

Maybe that’s why he was still so fucking turned on despite the fact you knew you didn’t exactly look like a movie star, and certainly didn’t smell like one. He was insatiable, like a German energizer bunny fueled by pure malice and sadistic urges. You had no idea what had encouraged him this time. Maybe it had been the fear in your eyes when he ran his hands along variously styled handsaws, asking you if you had an opinion on rotary versus hand.

Or maybe it was the fact that the still-weeping cut on your leg was close enough to your entrance for him to use the blood as lubricant as he assaulted you yet again. He seemed to like that sort of shit.

Who knows? It’s tough to say what really gets this guy off, especially considering the first time he used you, it was because you denied his stupid stitches, not wanting him to touch you anymore. He must’ve picked up on that bit, because he force-fucked your face and left a certain appendage in your throat so long that you passed out from lack of air.

He should have kept it there longer. Maybe then you would have died.

Either way, he abandoned whatever plans he originally had and now he’s breathing bastardized English into your ear, growling in German things you don’t understand and frankly you don’t want to. Even if you spoke German, you wouldn’t be able to translate because every fucking ounce of your brain power is dedicated to disassociating and separating yourself from this situation as much as you physically can. You pretend you’re home, asleep. You pretend none of this is real. You pretend that this is all a horrible nightmare because you fell asleep watching your scary que on Netflix.

And as he starts running his slimy tongue over your collarbones and up your neck, you pretend it’s anyone else in the world that is about to undo that belt buckle.

His hair is sticking to your neck and it makes you realize just how overheated he is. He’s an overbearing man at the best of times, but when he’s so worked up and covering you like a blanket, it’s absolutely stifling. Panic blooms and rises through your chest and for an instant, you’re certain you’re going to suffocate underneath him. It only takes you a few seconds to realize that’s not possible.

God isn’t that kind.

At least if you choked on the humid air he was so politely providing you, expedited by his tummy pressing into yours and blocking your breathing, your death would be relatively quick. But a God that allowed you to be taken, maimed, and violated by this son of a bitch certainly wasn’t a God that was going to grant you the mercy of a quick death. The devil was probably a fan.

People had died here, in this room. People had died horribly.

A stray tear falls down your cheek as you think on the fact that you’re likely going to be one of them.

Spurred on either by his gratuitously handsy harassment or perhaps your major fuck up of letting yourself cry, he pushes himself partially off you and back onto his knees. You hear the metal clinking of his belt buckle and you can hear your heartbeat in your ears which is funny considering it just dropped through your ass. You know what comes next.

If there’s any mercy, he’ll get it over with quickly.

You doubt it.

You learned that when Strade wanted things done quickly, he had certain ways of going about them, but he was not a man who liked to rush things. He did everything precisely, taking his time to deliberate just how to hurt you. Just where to cut, exactly where to place the drill, how to retie you just so that the new rope burn dug exactly into the pre-existing one.

Fucking you used to be one of those things he did quickly. He would get a little too excited, whip his cock out and go like a blood and khaki colored race car. The longest thing he did was debate exactly where the most degrading place to shoot his load was. You preferred it that way.

Unfortunately, Strade was a quick learner too. In fact, he very quickly learned that the thing you hated the most, one of your most viscerally charged reactions was when he took to touching you. No one likes torture, but the screaming and begging? It gets predictable.

When he took to forcing himself on you, there was no begging. There was only demands.

_“Get off me!” “Get away from me!” “Don’t fucking touch me!”_

There was no ‘please’ involved.

That was probably pretty typical for the first and maybe even the second day, but beyond that? It was strange when people kept their willpower. Most just became a blubbering, pleading mess.

He realized you must really hate it.

The moment it had clicked in his head, this sickly, nauseating smile crept across his face and you had to resist the urge to hurl.

“You must really have mixed feelings about this type of intimacy!” He’d grunted, slowing his thrusts to a crawl, which you could tell had taken some serious effort on his part. “You seem a little shy! There’s no need to be, not with me. After all, we’re sharing this experience together.”

You could feel every inch of him sliding in and he made a point to begin drawing the entire experience out, huffing and groaning in your ear and making you feel as disgusting and used as possible. You didn’t know it was possible to hate this much. You had reached up, gone from trying to push him off to actively trying to tear his eyes out. He had only laughed, slamming your wrists above your head as the other hand violated every ounce of bruised, swollen skin it could find.

You had thrown up after he left.

The next night, after he’d finished marring your skin, he’d forced you to do all the work. Made you ride him as he waved the knife lazily around your face repeating “You’ll have to do better than that, schön.” He’d even gone easy on you with the blood loss that night. Guess he was looking forward to seeing the anguish on your face as you had to actively work to finish him, or risk what he would do to you if you couldn’t. Worst of all was the fact that you had to expend a lot of energy that you didn’t have, or risk him drawing this out all night, and you truly weren’t sure if you could take that.

He’d held your hips down on him to prevent you from withdrawing as he came. He’d finished inside you. That night, you clawed at your arms, trying to push what was left of him out of you any way you could.

Tears of frustration and hate burn a hell of a lot more than ones from sadness, even more so because you knew it wouldn’t be long until it happened again. And here you were.

He moaned above you and you became acutely aware that his pants had been pulled down around his hips. He was palming himself with the hand that wasn’t stroking your cheek with dirty fingers. He was making a show of everything, and as much as you wished he’d stop, you knew that’s exactly why he was doing it. Trying to build up your dread as much as he possibly could before slamming you under. It was working.

The hand stroking your jaw squeezed and you cried out as he dug his fingers into the soft of your face. “Open your eyes, hase. We’re sharing something very personal and I want to know that you’re paying attention.”

There was no sense in fighting him. If you angered him, it would not only draw this out longer, but he’d probably just cut off your eyelids. He was temperamental like that.

Your forced yourself to turn your head after a moment of what you could call preparation. Your eyes fluttered open just in time to see a bead of sweat roll down off his neck and plop onto the floor right by your face. You swallowed back bile.

Eventually you found his face and he was looking a little too pleased, breathless and heaving even though he hadn’t even begun the main event yet. His face drifted closer to yours and you physically ground the back of your head into the cement below for any chance of inching away even slightly.

“Are you okay, liebling? You’re looking a little green.” He grinned, rubbing himself against you and getting dangerously close to the point of entry. You were still sore and sensitive from yesterday and the days before. Thinking of him entering you now made your stomach churn. “I know it can be a little overwhelming, this connection we have. Things are all happening so fast, and that can make you feel vulnerable.” His hand crept from your cheeks down to your throat, tightening a little as his meaty fingers found a comfortable spot on the rounds of your neck. 

Your hands, tied behind your back and trapped beneath your body, clenched an unclenched in an effort to fend off the impending tingling as your blood lost its circulation. You reminded yourself that it was the least of your worries as he rested his head in the crook of your neck, practically slobbering on your shoulder as he left small bites across the exposed expanse. “But you don’t have to worry, hase. What we’re sharing here, it’s bringing us so close.”

He used his knees to kick your legs apart, allowing himself better access as he lined himself up with your entrance. You tried to struggle, tried to buck him off, but he didn’t even so much as move. You hissed and spit, and he just laughed as if it was the most adorable thing in the world. He pressed himself nose to nose with you, eyes lingering on your snarling mouth for too long to set you at ease. You wanted to be invisible. You didn’t want him to be able to look at you anymore. More so, you didn’t want to look at him anymore.

You never thought these words would have any truth to them, but you missed when he used to take you from behind. At least then you could pretend it was someone, anyone else in the world you were with. Needless to say, he cut that shit out the second he realized he was giving you any inadvertent peace. Now whenever he fucked you, he made sure you had a clear, unobstructed view of his face. He made sure you kept your eyes open and on him, so you knew just whose cock was inside you, just whose hand was around your neck, just whose knife was pressed against a tender patch of flesh.

And in those times where your traitorous body tricked you into thinking it felt good, he wanted you to know just who was giving you that pleasure, and that he could take it away if he wanted to.

Not that he gave a fuck about your pleasure. You weren’t dumb enough to believe that. Not after everything you’ve seen. It was just another tool for him to use and wield against you.

You felt his hard member twitch at your opening as he pulled his hand away from situating it. You mentally prepared yourself for the pain. Strade was not a small man, in stature or ‘size’, and he never put any effort into making sure you were even remotely ready to accept him.

You bit your bottom lip, gritting your teeth as you waited for him to push inside. The first few minutes were the worst. If you could just get past those without doing something stupid, he’d eventually finish and tire himself out, leaving you with a few hours to try and recover. At least physically. Maybe tomorrow he’d get around to killing you.

“I feel like we’ve gotten to know each other so well over the last week. You’ve got more energy than most of my guests. Wouldn’t you agree?” He smiled lazily at you, and a mix of terror and fury brewed in your gut. You kept your mouth shut. You didn’t want to provoke him. Or encourage him.

“Oh, come on now, liebling. I thought we’d been getting on so well. Don’t go cold on me now.” You didn’t have to see him pull the knife from the holster to know that he did, and when you felt the sharp point push into your collar bone and little rivulets of blood begin to fall, you panicked.

You nodded at him, dragging your head up and down in faux enthusiasm, unable to keep your lips from pursing in disapproval. He didn’t really care what you thought, he just loved having that power and control over you.

“I’m glad you agree.” He pulled the knife away, but not before sharply tugging it across a bit of skin that wasn’t covered in cuts or hickeys already. Even knowing it was coming, you couldn’t help giving a sharp inhale at the prickling pain.

He brought his mouth down to the freshly made incision, sucking and tonguing at the cut enough to make your eyes water, lapping at any stray droplets of blood that fell. Your face scrunched, and you tried to jerk your head away again.

“ _Schau mich an!_ ”

All pretense of friendliness was gone from his voice, and you didn’t have to speak German to know what he was saying. Reluctantly, you looked at him again, noticing his eyes were low, flashing dangerously in the light. You had agitated him. “This is something personal between us, and I want you present and in the moment.”

You nodded again, making sure to look at him directly, no matter how much it made you sick. As much as you hated to admit it, you’d much rather it be him inside you than that knife, and he could switch that strategy any moment.

He gave a smile of approval, danger fading from his face for the moment. “Good! I’m glad this is as important to you as it is to me.” He gave a hefty sigh, letting his sweaty forehead rest against yours. You resisted the urge to close your eyes again. “I wasn’t lying. There’s a connection between us, and I want to explore it. I want to push it as far-”

He thrust inside, moving too fast to allow you to adjust yet too slowly to bring you any semblance of comfort, just enough to drag out the agony and make you dig your nails into your palm. A stinging pain shot through your nether at invading force and you gave a wordless cry, mouth opened in distress.

Strade, on the other hand, gave a long, exaggerated gasp of pleasure, testing the waters and shoving himself further in until you felt he might tear you in half. His bulbous head twitched inside you, pushing against your cervix. He pushed in until you cried out, trying to keep the tears from falling.

“-as it will go!” He planted his face onto yours, shoving his tongue into your mouth. Whimpering, you felt another tear slide down your temple, and you were grateful that for a moment his attentions were occupied.

He bit down on your lower lip, tugging and biting as if to warn you that he expected participation. You let your tongue tangle with his, if only to placate him for the moment. Keep him busy, make this quick.

He jerked his hips around for a moment, settling himself inside you as you tried to cry as silently as you could. The tearing pressure between your hips was nearly overwhelming you. Your sore walls yielded to him against their will, clenching tightly around him as if trying to push him out.

“ _Fick_ …” He hissed under his breath, pulling his face from yours. Instead, his head dropped gracelessly to your injured shoulder, making you wince. The knife clattered to the floor beneath you as his hand found your waist instead, bruising grip holding you in place as he thrust once as a tester. You swallowed another cry, knowing it would only egg him on.

He didn’t need that knife to do damage. You knew that.

“Always so tight, _schatzi._ ” He let out a ragged breath, keeping his hand firmly on your throat but allowing his thumb to travel upwards to your mouth, padding invasively at your lower lip. “It’s as if your body was made for me.” He sighed, chuckling darkly as he pushed his thumb into your mouth. “Almost like it doesn’t want to let goof me.

Frustration welled with the helplessness in your throat and it took every ounce of willpower in your being to keep from crying harder. You swallowed, blinking upward through your lashes to try and dissipate the tears that were forming beneath your lids. Trying, in a way, to give yourself over to the fact that there was nothing you could do against him, and any amount of struggling would only result in more pain for yourself. It was easier to just let him say, and _take_ , what he wanted.

He knew what he was doing.

He exhaled heavily on your neck, dragging your pliable body down onto him with an iron grasp on your hip as he thrust into you again. He was starting slowly, and some part of you was grateful for that. As much as it was easier to get this over with quickly, when he took his time at first, you at least had a little leeway when it came to mentally preparing yourself for whatever sick shit this psychopath was about to do. He was talented at finding new and exciting ways to make this as unbearable as possible.

He rolled his hips against you experimentally, pulling out only slightly before sinking back in. He was uncharacteristically gentle, but you knew well that it was a farce. He liked to do that sometimes. He would make mock gestures, almost with the sole intention of perverting something that was supposed to be done from love and care. The way he would talk to you as a friend, even as he caused you persistent and overwhelming pain. The way he called you pet names that should stay between intimate friends or lovers as your flesh and bone broke beneath his fingers. How he would kiss you slowly, even as his body demanded access to yours against your will and tears would stream down your cheeks as you would beg him to stop.

He tortured you not only physically, but mentally. He wanted to break you entirely.

A deep, debasing grunt left the base of his throat, exaggerated by his hand slipping from the curve of your hips down to the underside of your thigh, hiking your leg up around his waist to angle you just so that he could hit so deeply that it pushed on the limits of what your body could take. His face contorted in pleasure, hissing in incoherent sentences as he forced your leg up and around his burly body. It was a strain for him to slow his pace, but he did his best, focusing instead on the mixture of hatred and despair on your features to spur himself forward.

He pulled you closer, fingers digging into the plush meat of your thigh as he worked at you again and again. “ _Mein maus._ ” Nuzzling his head into the crook of your shoulder, he pushed his thumb fully into your mouth. You knew better than to bite down. You had the fresh bruise of a hard slap across your cheek to attest to that. He had warned you not to try it a second time, or you would lose your teeth. You listened and adhered, even as the calloused and dirty skin of his digit pressed deep against your tongue and created a terribly uncomfortable sensation. You weren’t even entirely sure he enjoyed it, but he would damn sure do it.

He made sure your leg stayed wrapped around him, allowing him access to the deepest parts of you, oscillating his large thumb in and out of your mouth as he slowly and torturously maneuvered in and out of you, dragging it on so much so that you were almost certain neither one of you were receiving any real pleasure from it other than his sadistic need to see you broken. With his head cradled between your neck and shoulder, his lips kept busy either licking tenderly, or sometimes biting hard on a small patch of skin enough to make you yelp out against your will, often drawing a small chuckle from him. 

Strade was easily entertained. You knew he could make this last hours, if he so chose.

Gritting your teeth, you opted to think of other things. Anything else, really. Anything that could make you forget that a German serial killer was fucking you on his basement floor with his hands that had been Gods know where deep inside your mouth. Could anything really distract you from that? All you could do was pray that it would be over quickly, and that perhaps he’d get bored of you and your body eventually and end your suffering quickly.

How had this happened exactly? A few days ago, you’d just gone out looking for a drink and maybe some entertainment for the night. Perhaps meet a few new people and sort out your place in the universe. Instead, you’d ended up here.

That was the last time you took advice and tried to be social.

You felt him shudder on top of you, and you knew instinctively that he was beginning to lose control. It was only a matter of time now before he lost it and pounded you like an empty oil drill in the desert. If you could just hang on, just make it through this.

“You know liebling, I wait for our time together all day.” He drawled, eyes closed and mouth wandering down to the crux of your breasts. “You really give a me something to look forward to. I appreciate that.” His thick tongue licked a stripe up from the bottom of your chest up the fatty tissue, pausing on a nipple as he took it into his mouth. His sharp teeth dug a little too hard into the tender flesh and you winced, eyes twitching briefly. “This _bond_ we share. It means a lot. You know what I mean?”

Every instinct in your entire body was screaming to tell him to go to hell, call him every name in the book and threaten his delicates if you ever got out of these bindings. But you’d been past this chapter already and knew exactly where it led. More of your blood, less of his patience, and even less of a recovery time before his mind came up with some new and exciting way to make you wish you were dead. The best answer was no answer at all, at least until you could get a read on what he wanted to hear.

Thankfully, he was more preoccupied than the last time you had opted to ignore him, and he either didn’t really notice or care that you had kept your mouth closed. “I’ve known a lot of interesting people in my time here, but you-“ He panted, huffing between words. “You’re special.”

“I bet you say that to everyone you kidnap.” You spat, unable to hold back the tide of resentment. He found it cute.

“Only the special ones.”

He began increasing his pace, but instead of just jackhammering into you as he normally did, he started rolling his hips, angling you further upward so that the fleshy skin of his pelvis was stimulating your most sensitive area. Caught completely off guard, you let out a gasp, taken by surprise at the sudden burst of pleasure as he spurred into you. He let out a heinous cackle, triumphant at the reluctant noise he had coaxed out of you. He pulled his thumb from your mouth, hovering it above your lips.

“Oh? That’s new!” He giggled, placing his face close to yours once more. “It seems like maybe you’re beginning to enjoy this!”

A renewed wave of anger washed over you, temporarily relieving you of your better senses. “Get fucked!” You hissed, gritting your teeth and doing your best to ignore the pleasurable sensation that was slowly building as he bucked into you, inadvertently rubbing against the tender bundle of nerves at your apex. He took it in stride, snickering again as he let his newly freed hand travel down your body, stopping momentarily on the low of your stomach.

“I am.”

He continued on for a moment, seemingly pursuing his own end as you willed yourself to push down the tide of unwanted heat swirling around in your abdomen. It wasn’t until you felt his hand slowly creep further downward and his thick finger gently prodding at the tops of your folds that you started to panic. Strade didn’t _do_ gentle, and anything he did, it was always with malicious intent.

That was why you nearly choked on your own spit when you felt his thumb pad at your clit, pushing down and swirling, using your own excess saliva for lubricant. 

You made a noise that was comprised of half shock, half moan, and a deep, animalistic growl rumbled from within Strade’s belly. Almost against your will, you clamped your eyes shut once more, utterly disgusted with yourself. How is there any way that you were enjoying this, even on a primal level? A few swift touches and your body turns full Benedict Arnold, almost playing directly into his hands? There had to be something wrong with you.

Strade, on the other hand, was absolutely delighted at the betrayal he elicited from you. A deep, horrible smile carved its way across his face, and his slimy tongue ran across his teeth, practically drooling as he continued to fuck you.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Liebchen.” Grunting, he nipped on your ear, sucking gently. His sweat and yours had begun to coat your body and the rhythmic slapping his nether region was making against yours was obscene. You tried to block it out, tried to will it all away, but his hands were too much against you, and it wasn’t long before both his precum and your wetness coated his navel and the inside of your thighs. White hot pleasure coiled inside of you, and soon even his brutal pistoning was contributing to the fire kindling between your legs.

You had always liked it a bit rough. Much like everything about you, he was using it against you now.

His harsh grip on your thigh relinquished and he brought him arm up, letting himself relax onto his elbow, fingers finding your throat again and clenching on either side. For once, he wasn’t cutting off your airway in cruelty, but asserting his dominance and delaying the blood flow to your brain. You felt your mind go light, lolling your head to the side as your eyes fluttered open again. Vision blurry and sanity slipping, your leg clenched around him of its own volition, and from your mouth escaped a breathy sigh, and your last effort was pretending you didn’t hear his name pass from your lips.

As if a switch in his brain flipped, his thrusts became punishing and cruel, slamming into you again and again until you knew there would be bruises. It would have hurt, been agonizing even, if you weren’t as needy as you were now. Instead, your body welcomed him, gripping him and allowing him to withdraw, albeit unwillingly. He never once ceased his ministrations on your swollen nub, maneuvering and manipulating your body better than even you could. His teeth found your lower lip, biting and tugging, and in your haze, you returned feverishly, allowing your tongues to tangle as your head was yanked violently back and forth by the force of his movements.

His face had turned a deep shade of crimson and he was staring at you with eyes that would have terrified you had you been in your right mind. Dilated and wild, with promises of pain to come, and yet you didn’t care. He chased his pleasure, and you kept pace with him, thrusting your own hips in time to meet his. Your heartbeat became a dull thud in your ears and the world around you became fuzzy, unable to separate what was happening from the overwhelming bliss spidering throughout your body and rendering you null and empty. Eventually what was left of your grip on reality left you, and you became incoherent. Begging, pleading, even demanding him. Pulling him with the limbs you had control of, clenching the extremities you didn’t. You needed _more._

You continued this dance for a while, though no one in the room could tell you how long. You might have been deranged in that moment, but even then, you noticed that after a bit, something in Strade had snapped as well. His movements were no longer calculated to hurt you, and while it wasn’t as smooth, his hand never stopped against your center. His head was dipped down and resting on your bouncing chest, hair wet and mangled by the sweat he was working up. He was cursing and muttering under his breath, fingers clenching on your throat but never strangling you. Occasionally when he did work up the strength to look up at you, his eyes were heavy lidded and greedy, but almost placated and content instead of malicious.

He almost looked human.

Eventually, it became too much, and your orgasm ushered him to his own. You gave up your hold on what little dignity and pride you had left, crying for him as your head threw itself back, legs spasming and thighs twitching. Your cunt clenched him, milking him through to his own end as he bit deep onto your shoulder and spilled inside of you, allowing the excess to spill out onto your thighs and into a small puddle beneath your heaving bodies. Your moans echoed off the walls and reverberated into your own ears, but it sounded like someone, anyone but you. Even though somewhere deep inside you, you knew you should feel shame and hatred and utter self-loathing, you couldn’t muster the energy anymore. He had sucked it all out of you.

He didn’t pull immediately from you like he normally did. He instead allowed himself to collapse on top of you, gulping in air and softening inside you. Your mind was a haze, still comatose in your post-orgasmic bliss, and you didn’t fight him as he pressed his lips to yours again. Your innards ached, and your arms and fingers were on fire from the lack of circulation, but you kissed him back as if the circumstances weren’t so weighted against you. You felt his sweaty body chafe against your already raw torso and could smell your own blood and viscera on him, but your body relaxed into him, allowing him to take what he wanted rather than fight him. In turn, he was gentle, almost kind as he whispered in your ear.

“ _Du gehörst mir_.”

When he finished, he finally pulled from you, letting his hand fall from your neck and zipping his pants up, looking rather disheveled. He almost seemed confused for a moment, before his normal smile returned and you felt your sick returning with it.

_What have you done?_

Your world began to spin, and you began to feel queasy. Your throat burned and nausea raged within you as if you were about to puke out every single organ one by one. Adrenaline pumped through your veins and returned some semblance of your sanity. At least what you could understand, with your stomach still in butterflies and his cum steadily dripping from you at your behest. Your eyes watered and in anger, you began to kick and snarl and you swore you would do anything if you could to keep this horrible, clawing feeling from ripping out your heart and mind. You had asked for this. You _wanted_ this.

He ignored you, seeming positively giddy as he skipped from the room. You could hear his booming footsteps clomp up the wooden steps and the heavy door shut behind him. He left you alone, at least for a moment, and despite what you’ve been through, it’s the worst moment of your life.

You cry, because it’s the one thing you can do. Sobs heave their way out of your chest, and you cough and sputter onto the floor, acutely aware of the smell of bodily fluids and sweat that permanently stains your skin. You inhale and you can feel him again except this time it’s like you’ve placed a welcome mat. His fluids are seeping into your skin, enveloping in your body, and you struggle and tear at your bindings because you want to claw him out before he seeps too deeply inside of you and leaves no semblance of the original you behind.

You’ve accomplished nothing but ripping open old wrist wounds by the time you hear the heavy boot fall against the steps again. You don’t know if you can bring yourself to look at him right now.

He makes you.

Strade pulls you up by your hair to your knees as you hiss in pain as sets you upright, grabbing your chin and squeezing until you obey. Rightfully, you’re afraid. You should be, you remind yourself.

“I have a gift for you.”

He’s got something hidden behind his back, and you prepare yourself for the worst. A knife in your throat, a blade to your neck. You might die.

A nail to your temple, a bucket of water to breathe. You were going to die.

Gasoline and a match, a saw to your face. You were _ready_ to die.

You were terrified, even as you prepared for almost anything, steeling yourself against the terror that was battering your resolution. This would never end unless he let it. He was giving you an out. _Take it._ Let it all end.

You closed your eyes as he reached toward you, clenching your teeth, saying your last laments and asking forgiveness from the universe. No more pain, you begged. You had been through enough. Seen enough. Seen enough of yourself. You were so tired. Let it end.

You felt the cold touch of steel kiss your neck as something was clamped around the rounds of your throat, and for a second, you were certain it was going to shrink down tighter and tighter until your neck snapped and your throat exited through your mouth. At least until you felt Strade’s warm, calloused hands adjusting it, maneuvering your face around as he adjusted it. A pit of despair welled inside of you as you opened your eyes, wiggling absentmindedly beneath the constraints, unsure of what was happening. He did this for what felt uncomfortably long, and you felt your brows furrow. This was an awful lot of work for someone who could just as easily stab you.

After a few more moments of soothing it down almost lovingly, he pulled away, smiling softly with a cocked head, looking down on you like a young boy who had just gotten a brand-new puppy.

Strade had his knife in one hand and it was purely instinctive as you flinched when he leaned into you. You expected the knife to enter somewhere very unpleasant inside of you, but instead you felt the press of a blade against your palm, only relaxing he when he sawed your binds off. You held them steady for a moment, unsure of what he wanted from you, but the painful static of numbness proved too much and eventually you let yourself release and flex your hands, pain racing through your arms even as you stared at him, petrified and cowering.

No cruelty, no pain, no anger. He only reached his hand out to you for you to grab, a gentle smile on his face even as he clutched the knife in his opposing hand in unspoken threat.

Hesitantly, you reach to him, just as he knew you would.

As if you ever had a choice.


End file.
